


Sanctuary

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if Dean can no longer carry Sam, at least he can still protect him in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend.

Sam is asleep with his forehead against the window as they pull into the parking lot in front of their motel for the night.  Dean always hesitates to wake him.  In his mind, he's still physically bigger; still capable of lifting his brother and carrying him to bed without waking him.  But that's not the case, and Dean leans over and gives Sam's shoulder a shake.

"Get up, Sammy."  He twists the key out of the ignition, and the Impala seems to sigh as the rumbling engine quiets.  "We're here."

Sam knits his eyebrows pitifully, twisting in his seat, trying to bury his face in the glass as if it were a pillow.  "Don' call me Sammy," he mumbles.  Dean rolls his eyes.  Sam hasn't complained about that in years – he must be really out of it.

"This again?  Really?  Alright.  Get up, bitch."

Sam smirks, just a little, but enough for Dean to tell that he's not as asleep as he's pretending to be.  He punches Sam's bicep playfully.  "I'll go get us a room." 

He thinks about Sam even as he enters the modest little office, which is lit by flickering fluorescents.  The secretary is older, tired looking, frown lines making a once beautiful face sag.  Her short, faded brown hair is in curls on top of her head.  Her nametag says 'Marge'.  Dean flirts with her anyway, calls her Margie, and she gives him a deal on a room. 

"Only got one bed though, hon," she says.  "Sorry." 

"Not a problem, Miss Margie," Dean replies, offering her a wink.  He's glad now that Sam didn't come into the office with him, though he's mourning the fact that they'll have to share a bed.  They haven't done that since they were kids, and it usually ended up with one of them giving up halfway through the night and moving to the floor. 

When Dean gets back outside, Sam is leaning against the car, laptop under his arm.  He still looks sleepy, eyes only half-open. 

"We're upstairs," Dean says.  "Room 202." 

The look on Sam's face makes Dean wish, again, that he could carry him up.  But the metal steps look steep, unstable, and Sam is (annoyingly) taller, bigger.  Feeling inadequate, Dean says, "C'mon." 

They go up to their room in silence.  Dean doesn't tell Sam about the bed; he's pretty sure that Sam is so tired that he won't even notice.  He fully expects Sam to go in and collapse right in the middle of it, sleep on top of the blankets with his clothes on.  Dean will snag a pillow – if he can.  If not, he's used to sleeping with just his rolled up jacket to support his head – and sleep on the floor.

When they get inside and Sam deposits his laptop on the little table, he does exactly as Dean imagined: goes straight to the bed and dives into it face first.  His legs are dangling off the bed and he toes off his shoes, shaking his feet a little to get them to fall.  Then he rolls, centering himself on the bed, and falls still. 

Dean smiles at him fondly, because Sam is still such a big kid.  He suddenly can't dream of disturbing him, not even to take a pillow, so he strips out of his jacket and rolls it up, placing it on the floor.  He eases himself down onto the faded green carpet – it's a little itchy, but tolerable.  He's just getting comfortable when Sam calls for him quietly.  "Dean?" 

"What, Sam?"  He's tired now that he's laying down, and he can't help but be a little annoyed. 

"Are you… are you sleeping on the _floor_?" 

Dean opens his eyes and Sam is staring down at him from the bed.  He looks tired, confused, like he's not entirely convinced this isn't a dream. 

"There's only one bed," Dean mutters, closing his eyes again.  "Go to sleep, Sammy." 

"Dude."  Sam sounds more awake now, concerned, back to trying to be the fair one, the logical one.  "Just get up here.  Bed's big enough." 

"One of us always moves to the floor anyway," Dean points out. 

"Yeah, when we were like, five.  All you're doing now is setting yourself up for a hell of a backache.  Come on." 

Dean can hear him rustling around, and when he opens his eyes again, Sam has moved to one side of the bed. 

"Come on," Sam says again.  "Plenty of room." 

Dean knows Sam well enough to know that he's not going to give this up, and he sighs, pushing himself up.  "Don't put your feet on me," he says, lifting up the covers and crawling into bed.  "And keep on your side." 

Sam smirks.  "Jerk." 

The bed is old, sensitive to movement, and it rocks around as Sam readjusts to get under the covers, seems to shift with his every breath.  It's oddly comforting – the feel of his breathing.  Sometimes, Dean will wake up in the middle of the night, vaguely panicked, and he'll sit up in his bed and just watch Sam breathe, assure himself that Sam is here and real. 

It's almost like being cradled, and it lulls Dean to sleep.  It's dreamless, deep and dark, and when the feeling of an arm flinging over him inevitably wakes him up only an hour later, he feels like he's slept for hours.  His eyes pop open and Sam's face is too close, resting on Dean's pillow, his arm draped around Dean's waist. 

Dean starts to shove at him, wants to wake him up and tell him to go back to his side, but Sam's brow is tight with worry.  There's a lot for Sam to have nightmares about, and though they never talk about it, Dean worries about him.  He slides his arm around Sam and he seems to relax a little, sighing.

"Dean," he murmurs, turning his face into the pillow a little, smiling softly.  Dean rubs at his back and it seems to work like magic, the tension melting out of Sam as if it had never been there.  Even if he can no longer carry Sam, at least he can still protect him in this way. 

He pulls Sam closer, resting his chin on top of Sam's hair.  "Sleep, Sammy," he whispers.  "Dream about – mom.  Dream that you're living the happy life you deserve.  The one I can't give you." 

He's falls back asleep like that, the two of them wrapped around each other.   

They're in that position when they wake up, their legs tangled together.  They don't talk about it; they don't even try to cover it up with a joke.  They check out quietly, hardly saying a word to each other.

It's not until they get in the car and Dean asks, "What do you want for breakfast?" that Sam seems to unlock a little.

"Uh, whatever," he answers.  "Doesn't matter." 

Dean puts the car in reverse, looking over his shoulder as he pulls out of his parking spot. 

"And uh, you should know," Sam says quietly, "that I am happy.  With you.  Because of you." 

Dean bites at his lower lip, a small prickle of tears lining his eyes.  "Oh, I bet you are," he says sardonically.  He turns on the radio before Sam can say another word, turning up Eye of the Tiger. 

They drive off, Dean drumming his hands on the steering wheel.  They won't ever talk about it again, but things seem a little lighter after that.  And sometimes, just sometimes, when they'll get a room with two beds, Dean will feel Sam crawl in beside him.  They'll fall asleep in each other's arms, protected from the world, their private sanctuary. 


End file.
